


Blind

by Delta_Immortal



Series: TWfemslash Week Summer 2014 (B-List) [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 19th century house, Amnesia, F/F, Fake Relationship, Female Ejaculation, Forced Kissing, Kidnapping, Smart Lydia, Stockholm Syndrome, dark!fic, not happy ending, rape by fraud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delta_Immortal/pseuds/Delta_Immortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wakes up and knows nothing but this 19th century house, that she knows things about the 21st century, and that she's always loved her teacher, Jennifer Blake. </p><p>But the voices crying out to Lydia are suggesting something otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>Written for TWfemslash Week, Day 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Lydia has sex with Jennifer under false pretenses; she's been lied to and manipulated, and Jennifer uses her Darach powers to convince Lydia to get into bed. Kidnapping is the premise of this fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> Day seven challenge was tropes, so: Amnesia, Kidnapping

There’s only blackness when she tries to remember. Only darkness when she tries to recall things about herself; no name, no life, no anything. She tries facts; she can recall presidents for a while, she can recall mathematical formulas, but no dates, no locations. She knows a bit about California; something about - she figures she might be from there, or grew up there. 

The room around her is filled with a soft light- an oil lamp is burning next to her. The smoke seems sweet, lavender, and she can see the entire wooden room, old and beautiful. There’s an older vanity made of heavy oak, a pitcher and bowl on the top. There’s not much more- a dresser, a couple of old books on top of it, and a journal next to her. 

Everything feels very 19th century.

Head still shaky, her hands open the journal. There’s not much written there; a couple of entires and a picture of a tree. 

She traces over the words, but they make no sense.

 _Julia is taking me to Drottninggatan_ , it is written. She doesn’t know if it is her writing or someone else; maybe she is Julia? The bed, she notes, is big enough for two. 

She moves to the vanity- she doesn’t know anything and she’d like to start by looking at herself. Her body is still shaky, still anxious as she moves to the stool at the vanity, staring at her reflection in a pale, open dress. She wasn’t even given underclothings.

Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t look good in the faded mirror. She can’t see much, but her reflection looks tired; eyes sunken in and skin an unhealthy pale. Her hair is still fabulous though. She opens the drawers and rifles through them. There are some home-made creams and lotions; each marked for what it’s for. She uses some eye cream to give her eyes a lift; she lotions up her skin in hopes for a healthy glow. There’s no cloth to wash her face, but she looks in the mirror and nods at her progress.

No matter what happens, at least she’ll look presentable.

There’s something akin to fear growing in her mind, something buzzing around the edges of her hearing, whispering voices that she can’t quite make out. Something is wrong; she needs to get to a phone. She needs to not be in this place, in this 19th century bedroom. 

She turns to the mirror and her face warps- there’s something dark in her reflection, something behind it like a face, a smooth, flat face-

She looks away. When she looks back, there’s nothing. 

She wishes there was a window in the room. There’s a door. Hurriedly she runs to it, grasping the handle. It doesn’t open. 

Panic begins to creep into her veins. Who would keep her here? Who would possibly-

“One moment, love,” comes the voice. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

She breathes, nodding, and sitting on the bed. “I am,” she calls out, “So if you could please hurry, I’d like to see daylight.” 

The voice laughs. “Wouldn’t we all?” it asks. 

Something seems wrong. Daylight shouldn’t be a privilege. The door unlocks from the outside and the woman pokes her head in. She’s a soft lady, smiles and brightness, and she seems safe. She reminds the woman of a teacher. 

That feels right. A teacher. 

“How are you feeling, Lydia?” 

Lydia. That’s her name. That feels right. She breathes, grounding herself. “I don’t know who I am,” she utters. “I can’t remember anything about myself.” 

The woman sits on the bed next to Lydia, searching her face. Lydia feels a little better; she feels like she shouldn’t be weak, but the lady seems to make it okay. “I’m sure I was wonderful,” she says. 

“You were,” the woman says. “I’m Jennifer, then, if you don’t know me.” 

It helps to have a name. It helps to have a nice, patient person. Relief washes through Lydia-

_A tidies lily, a tidies lily-_

-She’ll get through this. She blinks, Jennifer looking her over. “I was worried that you wouldn’t make it,” Jennifer continues. “I was told memory loss was to be expected, though.” She reaches out for Lydia’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” she whispers honestly, caringly. 

The amnesiac nods, breathing. “Why are we in a 19th century house? Where’s the internet? Cell phones?”

Jennifer inhales. “We live like this,” she states. “We agreed to it- before. There were too many distractions otherwise.” She frowns. “I can give you a cell phone, if you’d like,” she states. 

Too late, Lydia realizes she wouldn’t even know who to call. 

“What about emergencies? Do you use a phone for that?” she snaps, suddenly feeling more isolated than before. 

“We do have an emergency phone for that,” Jennifer informs her. “9-11 and some such. It’s in my truck outside.”

It seems acceptable. It seems to make sense. “I want to see it,” she announces, and Jennifer nods, calm and accepting. She leads the way out, helpfully pointing out things in the house- a bathroom (they did have running water for a toilet, thank God), a wash basin, a wooden stove, a living area, and a much bigger, locked room. Jennifer explains they’ll talk about it later, but she wants Lydia to know where they are now. 

To have such a helpful, kind, and patient person through all this- Lydia breathes at her luck. 

_Ideally is it Ideally is it Ideally is it Ideally is it Ideally is it Ideally is it Ideally is it_

She stops at the hallway, hand on her head. “What is it?” Jennifer asks. 

“My head hurts,” Lydia utters, falling to her knees. 

Jennifer instantly drops to the floor with her, setting her hand on Lydia’s hands. “Lydia? Lydia? What do you hear?” she asks. 

Lydia looks up at her. “This happened all the time?” 

Jennifer nods.

Relief. Okay. Normal. “Am I sick?” she asks, and Jennifer chuckles, pressing a kiss to her head. 

_Allies Tidy I Allies Tidy I Allies Tidy I Allies Tidy I Allies Tidy I Allies Tidy I_

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut. “Breathe,” Jennifer tells her. “You’re not sick. It’s a gift.” She keeps her lips close to Lydia’s forehead. “Just listen. What are they saying?” 

Lydia sighs, trying to focus. Jennifer waits a little, but the sounds are jumbled and scratching against each other like background static. “I can’t focus,” she whines. She should be able to. 

“That’s alright,” Jennifer mutters gently. “Let it come to you. Relax.” 

Lydia relaxes, and the sounds come. 

“A river?” she asks, and indeed, she can hear rushing water. “Breathing.” She can see things now, too. “Someone’s stumbling-“ 

And the feeling grips her, an icy cold current in her veins. “Close to death. But not… not going to die.” She shivers. 

Jennifer places a blanket around her. “There’s two creeks meeting a river,” Lydia sees, “He’s… a wolf? Looking for someone. But he’s a human-“ 

“Werewolf,” Jennifer says softly. “Okay.” She kisses Lydia’s head again. 

The feeling passes, lifted from Lydia’s shoulders. Lydia looks at the other woman, confusion on her face. 

Jennifer looks her squarely in the eyes. “Very quickly, Lydia- there’s a werewolf after us.” 

Suddenly knowledge about wolfsbane, about mountain ash and about molotov cocktails run through Lydia’s brain. She’s not sure _how_ she knows, but she does. 

“I’m a druid,” Jennifer assures her. “But I’m very powerful. I can protect us.” She looks at Lydia, taking her hand. “How does it feel, Lydia?” 

Lydia shivers. “There’ won’t be death here,” Lydia murmurs. Jennifer kisses her forehead again. 

“That’s right,” Jennifer agrees. “I’m going to go out to take care of him now, Lydia. It’s not safe to be outside, understand?” 

She does understand. That much she understands. Jennifer nods, standing up. “Good. Now then, if you want, you’re free to explore the house. There’s tea in the fridge. There’s a locked room- it’s my druid stuff, magic. I’ll show it to you when I’m back home, okay?” Jennifer puts on a coat- it’s snowing outside- and Lydia watches her go with big eyes. 

Free to explore, but the feeling of chains still surround her. 

 

***

 

Lydia drinks a glass of tea and looks through the bookshelf. There’s a photobook, inside, lots of photos. Lots of them. Lydia realizes they must have been dating- Jennifer shows up in almost every picture. They’re comforting, and they have captions attached- fragments of her life that she just can’t touch. 

_Wiggle hits thorn Wiggle hits thorn Wiggle hits thorn Wiggle hits thorn_

Lydia looks again at the photos, Jennifer smiling and kissing and loving. From the pictures, it looked like a forbidden romance between them, a student and a teacher. Lydia smirks at herself; she’s pleased with her go-getting attitude. She’s a woman who knows what she wants and she gets it.

She looks through books- there’s a book of maps with a bunch of letters bunched between the Nordic countries.

It doesn’t take much convincing to read them. The writing in the journal must be hers- she finds a pencil and tests it. Yes. Something like hers. She looks over the love in her letters, the mention of movies, like the notebook. She turns to the living room- there’s a book version. 

Maybe the voices got worse with electronic things. Maybe that’s why they’re here. 

Lydia doesn’t like it, she doesn’t like depending on one person for information. She bites her lips and keeps reading through the letters. Jennifer has always been supportive of her, even helped her get into college at MIT. 

Lydia’s heart swells. 

But then she reads about the voices, about the things. The letters explain her connection to death, to the voices, to everything. She’s a banshee- Jennifer has taken her away and protected her from people who would use her. 

Lydia feels like crying. Right now, she wants to know who she is, to know who she should be protected from. 

At least the windows look nice in this house, Lydia allows, searching for more things about her past.

 

***

 

Jennifer returns home, her body rippling with power. Lydia can feel it; it stumbles over the place. Jennifer takes off her shoes and Lydia sits up from the couch, meeting her directly in the eye. 

“Thank you,” she begins, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “For… everything, really. I…uh, I found our old letters, our photos.” 

The druid tilts her head, but Lydia stands up, unsure of what she should be doing. “Uh, right. I’m sorry I don’t remember, but…” she opens her arms. “Welcome home.”

Jennifer smiles, her arms outstretched and wraps herself around the banshee. “It’s good to be home,” she murmurs into Lydia’s ear. Her body tingles with Jennifer’s power, life and darkness rolled into one. “Lydia,” she breathes, “How much did you read?” 

Lydia is suddenly aware of her growing arousal, of the sudden weight in her bosom and a growing wetness between her thighs. “Enough,” she explains, suddenly eager to take them back to the bed, to feel her lover. An orgasm or twenty sound great right now.

She leans up to kiss her lover, and she feels Jennifer’s hands grip her hips tightly, possessively, in response. Heat sparks within her body, the desire turning into need with an inhuman speed. Jennifer grips her lower and hauls her up, Lydia wrapping her legs around Jennifer’s waist, her hands diving around her neck. She pulls away in surprise, a loose strand of hair in her face. 

Jennifer laughs lowly. “Perks of being a druid, Love,” Jennifer whispers in her ear, nibbling on the lobe. Lydia nods and dives back into a kiss, commanding Jennifer to move her head. The technique comes easily; sucking, stroking, jaw movements. Jennifer moans into her mouth in response, hands tightening. The banshee is sure Jennifer can feel Lydia’s wetness on her stomach, and she doesn’t care. 

They fall back to the bedroom, Lydia beneath her, legs scrambling to bring her closer. Jennifer kisses her again and again, her hands scrambling to take off her dress. Lydia nearly bucks into Jennifer’s hand as she feels her fingers against her vulva, crying out when her fingers finally press in, upwards, against that spot deep inside her.

Jennifer encourages her various sounds, her mouth latching onto her collarbone, marking her up. Lydia twitches, mouth falling open and hips canting up as Jennifer finds her g-spot. Her fingers tremble as they hold onto Jennifer’s shoulders, her thighs tightening, trying to drive her deeper as the pleasure climbed inside her. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Jennifer breathed, her curls falling apart, strands of hair in her face. Lydia moans her response, unable to think. Jennifer laughs, kissing Lydia’s nipple happily. Lydia shifts, grinding her hips against Jennifer’s fingers. 

Jennifer curls her fingers and Lydia lets out a scream, something wet shooting all over Jennifer’s body. Ejaculation, Lydia thinks, her body sensitive and pliant as she recovers from orgasm.

“That was acceptable,” Lydia announced. 

Jennifer chuckles against her breast. “I’ll try harder next time,” she responds, her fingers starting up again. 

The next time she comes, Lydia screams. 

 

***

 

Jennifer has to go out the next morning. Lydia nods and asks for a list of chores to do around the house- if it’s unsafe, she’ll stay where she is. Jennifer gives her a phone as they discussed earlier and leaves instructions for lotions, dinners, and charms. She also gives Lydia the journal if she sees anything, and kisses her goodbye, which might be more of a kiss than moves into breast suckling and fingering with orgasm, but Lydia isn’t going to knock it. 

She’s lucky.

She’s in the middle of making a lunch for herself when the feeling returns.

“Stop it!” she hears, almost like her own voice. Lydia moves the pan off heat, standing upright. 

“Let me out!” 

She can hear the voices, but she isn’t sure where they’re coming from. 

They’re getting louder. 

“Don’t do this!” 

Lydia finds herself walking. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but her feet are walking her back towards the bedroom. She gives into the feeling of dread and horror. 

“Let me go,” comes the sobs, and Lydia is sure now it’s her voice. “Let me go, Jennifer, please let me go.” 

Lydia feels horror growing inside of her- Jennifer isn’t her anything. That feeling is solid, unshakable. She runs to the journal, reading the sentence again. 

The sounds shift around. 

_Lydia it lies Lydia it lies Lydia it lies_

She can’t make out the meaning, though, what Drottninggatan might mean. She runs back to her photos, the letters, trying to put the pieces back before Jennifer catches her. She pulls out the photos. 

_The light is wrong the light is wrong the light is wrong_

It’s true. The light on each of their faces in the photos come from a different source- she’s been photoshopped in. Jennifer was never in those photos. Or Lydia wasn’t in them.

Lydia swallows. 

She re-reads her letters, noting her code, a message she’s left to herself. 

 _Jennifer Blake,_ she reads, is a Darach. _She killed people for power. She plans to use you to find her next victims_. 

She wants to scream. She wants to figure this out. She reaches for the cell phone, dials 9-1-1. 

Nothing. There’s no service this far out. Lydia throws the phone against the wall, sealing up the letters back in the book-

Stockholm. 

Lydia breathes in a sharp intake of breath as she finds Drottninggatan, or Queen Street. She’s lightly outlined it before, enough to draw her eye to it. Stockholm. 

Jennifer’s taking us to Stockholm. 

Stockholm Syndrome. Lydia breathes. It makes sense. It’d be better to have a willing captive, one agreeing to work with her. She shuts the book and stuffs it back in the shelf, she moves the photos back to where they were. There’s got to be something. 

She sits on the sofa, thinking. She thinks about if she wants to go back to the bed, but no. She’ll face Jennifer head on. She swallows, waiting for the door to open. 

 

***

 

Jennifer is stroking her face gently. “Oh, Love,” she whispers, pulling Lydia against her. They’re laying side by side in the bed. Lydia breathes; she must have fallen asleep waiting, and Jennifer must have seen the phone. Her mind is racing, her heart is beating, but there’s no graveyard feeling and she takes comfort in that. 

Neither of them will die.

Jennifer leans up to her ear. “What are we going to do?” she breathes into Lydia’s ear. 

Lydia tenses and sets her jaw. “I’m going to keep fighting you,” she announces. Her voice is barely a whisper, but it’s steady and filled with anger.

The Darach breathes, her hands lightly caressing Lydia’s cheek. “I know,” she murmurs, her voice low like when arousal was flooding through her. “We’re strong women, you and I.” She leans over Lydia, her face smooth like the vision in the mirror. Lydia doesn’t even let Jennifer see her surprise. “We’ll be fine,” Jennifer assures her, and presses their lips together. 

Lydia screams.


End file.
